Honour and Sacrifice
by Derwydd
Summary: Sorry for the long wait and short chapters, but I have a little something called high school I have to finish this year and fortunately, I picked the hardest courses, so more work, less play. Enjoy
1. Default Chapter

1 The Camp  
  
It was raining. Again. He hated the rain. It had followed him for the last two weeks, ever since he had arrived in Khanduras, seeking the last sheltered encampment of the Rogues. He sighed. There probably wasn't a single piece of equipment on his body that wasn't soaked through by now, he thought. His axe haft was probably going to need replacing it was so waterlogged. But he didn't care that much now. He had finally arrived in what appeared to be a sign of civilization in this tainted land.  
  
"He" was a young barbarian named Durendal and this sign of civilization was the Rogue Encampment from which pleas of assistance had gone out, to all corners of Sanctuary. Evil slept no longer and the Rogue monastery had fallen to demons and the undead. Many of the Order of the Sightless Eye had themselves succumbed and the corrupted warriors, once the greatest protectors of light, now spread terror throughout the land. And so word had gone out to all the lands, seeking assistance in combating the darkness that seemed poised to overcome all.  
  
Durendal had answered the call, leaving the northern home of his people, the guardians of Arreat. After many weeks of journey, he had finally arrived at his destination. Now he stood in front of the pallisaded gate of the Rogue Encampment, cold, weary, but unbowed. The pride of youth had set him upon this quest and he was determined to see it through.  
  
"Halt stranger!" Challenged a Rogue sentry from the gates. "Identify yourself and approach slowly with our hands in front where I can see." Durendal approached cautiously, careful to keep his hands far away from the axe slung at his side.  
  
"I am Durendal of the Northlands. I come in peace and offer my services to the battle against evil." Durendal called to the sentry. "And I wouldn't mind some shelter from this unceasing rain." He added under his breath.  
  
The sentry emerged from the gates, moving slowly toward him. Stopping ten feet in front of him, she warned him, "Don't try anything foolish barbarian, there are three arrows pointed at your heart." Looking him over to verify what he had said, the Rogue nodded, evidently satisfied he spoke the truth. "We can't always be sure in this fog if what strangers say is true. Go see Kashya, our commander, she'll be right inside the gates. She'll answer any questions." The sentry said briskly, before turning back to the camp.  
  
Durendal sighed again, following the rogue into the camp. Still nothing about shelter from the rain. Life was not being pleasant to him. 


	2. A New Home

Introductions  
  
Durendal stood within the gates, unsure of what to do. He was not ordinarily known for being a talkative individual. Being the stranger in an embattled camp of a foreign people was not exactly conducive to conversation. With the fiery Kashya, battle-leader of the Rogues standing in front of him, he was definitely not feeling sociable. He waited for her to make the first move, while he stoically endured her burning glare.  
  
After what seemed like a good hundred heartbeats, Kashya finally spoke. "Welcome Outlander, to our glorious hovel. I see that you have come in the hopes of battling the evil that has driven our order from our ancestral monastery. You wouldn't be the first. We'll see how long you last." She said dismissively. Durendal frowned briefly at her condescending tone. The Northerners of Arreat did not take kindly to being so casually insulted, but he prudently kept his thoughts to himself. "You can see Warriv about a dry place to sleep," she continued, pointing to a man in Eastern clothing, standing before a great fire in the centre of the camp. "And I'm sure Akara would like to see you. But remember this Outlander. Akara may be our spiritual leader, but I lead the Rogues in battle." With that, she stalked back to the sentries at the gate.  
  
Durendal watched her briefly, then shook his head. There was one he would rather not anger. Shouldering his meager belongings, he started over to the man whom Kashya had pointed out. But before he had made it halfway, a short, huddled shape darted out in front of him. Instincts kicking in immediately, his axe was in his hand before he realized what stood in front of him was actually a man.  
  
"Whoa, careful there, my friend. I mean no harm." The man said. Durendal opened his mouth to apologize, but the figure continued without noticing. "My name is Gheed, and I can tell you already I'm going to be your best friend in this accursed place. Would you like to take a look at my selection of weaponry and armours? No doubt a fine warrior like you has need of good weapons." Gheed said to a bemused Durendal.  
  
Casting a speculative glance at the wares displayed in a brightly coloured wagon nearby—easily identifiable by the Gheed's name painted in garish colours—Durendal shrugged. "Can you replace my axe haft?" He asked.  
  
Gheed hesitated before answering "Er…no. But I'm sure I could sell you a much better axe!" Gheed moved closer, sensing a sale.  
  
"I'm afraid I would have naught to pay you with. Besides, I have grown very used to my weapon. Who knows how dangerous I could be if I had a weapon unsuited to my style. Innocent people like you could get hurt." Durendal answered laconically. Gheed hmphed in frustration and walked back to his wagon.  
  
Durendal continued over to Warriv, and stopped a few feet to the side of him. Warriv was in deep conversation with a young man, dressed similarly to the caravan leader and presumably another member of the caravan. Warriv finished speaking and the man nodded briefly before moving off toward a cluster of tents and wagons and some unknown task. Noticing the imposing Barbarian warrior, Warriv turned to face Durendal. "Can I help you stranger?" He asked.  
  
Durendal nodded. "Kashya told me you could help me find some shelter from this infernal rain." He replied, finally letting some of the frustration he felt slip into his words.  
  
Warriv chuckled good-naturedly. "I see you're not used to the weather of the Western Realms. Ah, but never fear, you'll grow used to it in time." Durendal nodded, grinning wryly. He already liked this man, who seemed to be the only person in camp with a normal and friendly disposition.  
  
Warriv motioned for Durendal to follow him as he moved over to a wagon with a tarp spread over its contents. As the middle-aged trader began to rummage through the wagon, he kept up his conversation with Durendal. "I'm not surprised to see one your kind here. Many adventurers have traveled through here since the recent troubles began. Not many have returned." Warriv remarked with a troubled look darkening his face. But he brightened as he found something. He pulled out a large canvas tent and tossed it to Durendal, who caught it easily, then turned back and began pulling out a number of tent poles. Turning, he face lit with a sudden realization. "I'm sorry, I just realized I have not introduced myself! My name is Warriv, and I was leading this caravan east before the trouble began."  
  
Durendal nodded, an grin coming to his face. He extended his hand in a friendly shake. "Durendal. Of Harrogath in the Northern Mountains." Warriv shook his hand with a firm grip, smiling.  
  
"Well, seeing as things are the way they are right now and the Rogue Monastery remains shut against any caravans, I will likely be here for quite a while. Do not hesitate to ask me for anything you need." Warriv said. Durendal thanked him gratefully and then moved off to find a place to set up his tent. He found a spot not far from the fire in the center of the camp, and setting down his belongings, began putting up the small tent that would be his new home. 


End file.
